To Taste Temptation (26 page)

Sam stared at him hard. “I’m Lady Emeline’s neighbor.”

This was no invitation, of course, but the footman must’ve seen the determination in his eyes and decided the point wasn’t worth arguing. “Yes, sir.” He held the door open.

Sam crossed the threshold and immediately realized his peril. The hall held only a few servants, but the grand, curving staircase was crowded. He began making his way up the stairs, past loudly talking groups. Emeline’s ballroom was on the upper floor, and as he neared, the clamor became louder, the air heavier and hotter. He felt sweat start at his neck. He hadn’t been in such a crowded space since the Westerton ball, and there he had succumbed to his demons most ignominiously.
Not here,
he prayed.

By the time he made the entrance to the ballroom, his breath was coming fast and short, as if he’d run miles. For a moment, he considered turning back. Emeline had lit thousands of beeswax candles in her ballroom, in mirrored chandeliers overhead. The place was bright, sparkling like a fairyland. Swags of scarlet silk hung from the walls and ceiling, orange and red flowers caught in the knots. The room was beautiful, elegant, but he didn’t care. His woman was somewhere in this room, and he meant to catch her and hold her.

Sam inhaled carefully through his mouth and dove into the mass of sweating, milling humanity. He could hear violins faintly playing, but they were all but drowned out by laughter and chattering voices. A gentleman in purple velvet turned and bumped into Sam’s chest.
Blood and screaming, eyes wide in a white face below a bleeding scalp.
He closed his eyes, shoving past the man. Ahead was an opening in the crowd where the dancers paced with stately grace. He made the edge of the dance floor and paused, gasping for air. A matron in yellow silk eyed him and whispered behind her fan to her companion. Damn them all, anyway, these overfed, overornamented English aristocrats. When had they ever known fear or felt the splatter of blood from a fellow soldier?
The surprise in a young soldier’s face as half his head was blown away.

The dancers halted, no more out of breath than if they’d sat for the last five minutes. They looked bored and bloodless, as if they could barely take the trouble to keep themselves upright. The crowd shuffled against him, and he had to close his eyes and concentrate to keep from striking out at the nearest person. He breathed deeply and tried to think of Emeline’s eyes. In his mind, they were narrowed with exasperation and that made him almost smile.

He opened his eyes, and Lord Vale strode into the middle of the dance floor, now nearly empty. “Friends! Friends, may I have your ear?”

Vale’s shout, loud though it was, was swallowed by the mass of bodies. Nevertheless, the conversations began to die.

“Friends, I have something to say!”

A group of young gentlemen moved in front of Sam, obscuring his vision. They looked barely old enough to shave.

“Friends!” came Vale’s shout again, and Sam caught a glimpse of scarlet.

His heart galloped. He put out a hand to shove against a padded shoulder, and the young buck in front of him turned to glare. Sam inhaled and caught the stink of sweat. Male sweat, sour and burning, the smell of fear.
The prisoner MacDonald crouching under a wagon as the battle raged all around. MacDonald catching Sam’s eye from his hiding place. MacDonald grinning and winking.

“I have an announcement that pleases me greatly.”

Sam started forward, ignoring the stench, ignoring his demons, ignoring the realization that he was already too late.

“Lady Emeline Gordon has consented to be my wife.”

The crowd applauded as Sam barreled through the men, those dead and alive, who stood between him and Emeline. He came out on the dance floor and saw Emeline smiling politely beside Vale. Vale had his arms raised, triumphant in this moment. Emeline turned her head and her smile died as she saw Sam.

He started for them with no thought in his head save murder.

Vale caught sight of him. His eyes narrowed and he nodded to someone behind Sam. Sam felt his arms seized and pulled behind him. And then he was being hustled from the ballroom by two burly footmen, a third clearing the way ahead. It happened so fast he didn’t even have time to call out to Emeline. At the side of the ballroom, Sam finally came to himself and twisted violently, catching one of the footmen by surprise. He pulled his arm free and swung at the man, but before his fist could connect, he was shoved from behind. The first footman still holding him let go, and Sam half fell into the hall. He straightened and whirled, and Vale’s fist slammed into his jaw.

Sam stumbled back, landing on his arse. Vale stood over him, his fists still balled. “That was for Emmie, you whoreson.” He turned to the footmen behind him. “Take this rubbish and pitch it—”

But Vale didn’t finish the sentence. Sam rose, low and fast, and charged him, catching him about the knees. Vale went down with a thunderous crash, Sam on top. Several women shrieked and the crowd scattered away from them. Sam began to crawl up him, but Vale twisted, and they both went tumbling, rolling toward the stairs. A matron screamed as she fled down the stairs, pushing other ladies ahead of her. Their skirts swept across suddenly cleared steps.

Sam grabbed the top banister to stop the momentum of their roll. He teetered, his shoulders over the first step, until Vale kicked at his undefended stomach and Sam had to let go to shield himself. He slid, head-down, but managed to snatch Vale’s arm, bringing the other man with him. They careened without control down the stairs, tangled together in a murderous heap. Each tread raked painfully across Sam’s back as they thumped down. He no longer cared if he lived through this encounter or not. He just wanted to make sure he took his enemy with him. Midway down, they slammed into a banister, halting their descent. Sam hooked an arm around a wood pole and kicked viciously at Vale, catching him good and solid, low on the side.

Vale arched under the impact. “Hell!” He twisted and pressed his forearm down on Sam’s windpipe, thrusting hard. Sam gagged from the weight. Vale brought his head close to Sam’s and spoke low, his face black with rage. “You stupid, shitty colonial. How dare you put your filthy hands on—”

Sam let go of the railing and slammed both hands against Vale’s ears. Vale rocked back, freeing Sam’s throat, and Sam gasped painfully for air. But they were sliding farther down the stairs. Vale pummeled him, hitting at face and belly and thighs. Sam jolted with each impact, but strangely, he didn’t feel a thing. His entire being was filled with rage and sorrow. Sam punched the other man, striking anything he could hit. He felt his knuckles split against Vale’s cheekbone and felt the wet smack as the other man’s nose broke. His back jarred into the landing. Vale was on top now, a clear advantage, except that Sam didn’t goddamn care. He’d lost everything, and right now this man was the cause of it all. Vale might have righteous anger, but Sam had the rage of despair, pure and simple. There was no match.

Sam lurched up, right through Vale’s punches. He could feel their impact on his face, but he plowed through the blows. There was only the need to kill. He caught Vale and threw the bigger man down, and then Sam was hitting him, slamming his fists into Vale’s face, and the feeling was glorious. He felt the crunch of bone, saw the splatter of blood, and didn’t care. Didn’t care.

Didn’t care.

Until he caught a movement from the corner of his eye. He swung up and froze, his clenched, bloody fist only inches from Emeline’s face.

She flinched. “Don’t.”

He stared at her, this woman he’d made love to, this woman he’d poured his soul into.

This woman he loved.

She had tears in her eyes. “Don’t.” She reached out one small, white hand and wrapped it around his bruised and bloodied fist. “Don’t.”

Below him, Vale wheezed.

Her gaze cut to her fiancé and her tears overflowed. “Please, Samuel. Don’t.”

He felt, vaguely, the pain begin, both in his body and in his heart. Sam lowered his hand and lurched upright. “Damn you.”

He staggered down the stairs and out into the cold night.

That night, Iron Heart lay chained in the dank, cold dungeon and knew that he had lost everything. His baby son was gone, his princess wife was in despair, the kingdom stood undefended, and before the dawn, he would be put to death. One word from his lips would exonerate him. That same word would send him back to sweeping the streets and kill Princess Solace. He did not care how his life ended, but he could not be the instrument of the princess’s death. For a strange and wonderful thing had happened in the six years of his marriage.

He’d fallen in love with his wife....

—from
Iron Heart

When Rebecca descended the stairs the next morning, she startled two maids. They had been standing, heads bent close together, whispering furiously. At the sound of her footfall, they leapt apart and stared up at her.

Rebecca lifted her chin. “Good morning.”

“Miss.” The older one recovered first, bobbing a curtsy before hurrying away with her friend.

Rebecca sighed. The servants were naturally excited about the events of the night before. Samuel had awakened the entire household when he’d stumbled in the front door with blood streaming down his face. He’d been adamant that she not send for a doctor, but for once Rebecca had overridden her older brother. The blood and his apathy had frightened her half to death. She hadn’t seen Lord Vale, but from bits and pieces she’d gathered from the doctor and the servants, the viscount was in even worse condition.

Rebecca wished desperately that she could tiptoe next door and just talk to Lady Emeline. Sit and commiserate with her. Lady Emeline always seemed to know exactly what should be done in any given situation, and she was the type of woman who could set everything right. Always assuming that this problem could be set right. But Rebecca very much feared that she might never talk to Lady Emeline again. She doubted that there was an etiquette rule that covered this situation.
How to approach a lady whose fiancé your brother has beaten into a bloody pulp.
It was very awkward.

She wandered into the dining room, her brows knit. Samuel had hardly spoken the night before, and she knew from the servants that he hadn’t stirred from his bedroom this morning. She had the dining room to herself and her worries. Actually, she felt the most lonely since she’d set foot in England. She rather wished that there was someone she could confide in. But Samuel wasn’t talking, and everyone else in the house was a servant.

Rebecca reached for a chair only to find a masculine hand pulling it out for her. She looked up—far up—into the face of O’Hare the footman.

“Oh, I didn’t see you.”

“Yes, miss,” he said as formally as if he’d never talked to her so casually just a few weeks ago.

There was another footman in the room, of course, and the butler lurked somewhere about. Rebecca sat in her chair feeling a bit deflated. She looked down at the tablecloth in front of her and struggled to hold back sudden tears. Now, that was silly! To go weeping like a baby just because a servant didn’t acknowledge one as a friend. Even if one could really use a friend right now.

She watched as O’Hare’s big, reddened hand poured her tea. “I wonder...” She trailed off, thinking hard.

“Yes, miss?” His voice was so nice, with that bit of a burr softening it.

She looked up and met his green eyes. “My brother’s very favorite sweet in all the world is crabapple jelly, and he hasn’t had any in ages. Do you think it might be possible to purchase some?”

O’Hare’s green eyes blinked. He really did have the most lovely, long eyelashes, almost like a girl’s. “I don’t know if there’s crabapple jelly at the grocer’s, miss, but I can go look—”

“No, not you.” She smiled sweetly at the other footman, a bowlegged fellow who’d been watching their conversation with wide, not-too-bright eyes. “I’d like
you
to go.”

“Yes’m,” the second footman said. He looked confused, but he was well trained. He bowed and exited, presumably in search of crabapple jelly.

Which left Rebecca alone with O’Hare.

She took a sip of her tea—too hot, she usually let it sit for a minute to cool off—and set the teacup down precisely on the table. “I haven’t seen you since our return from the country.”

“No, miss.”

She twisted the teacup a bit. “I just realized. I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s O’Hare, miss.”

“Not that one.” She wrinkled her nose at her teacup. “Your other name. Your Christian name.”

“Gil, miss. Gil O’Hare. At yer service.”

“Thank you, Gil O’Hare.”

She folded her hands in her lap. He stood behind her like a proper footman, ready to serve her anything she might need. Except what she needed wasn’t on the table or sideboard.

“Did...did you see my brother last night?”

“Yes, miss.”

She looked at the basket of buns in the middle of the table. Really, she wasn’t hungry at all. “I suppose they’re all talking about it in the kitchens.”

He cleared his throat but said nothing more, which she took as a resounding affirmative.

She sighed forlornly. “It was rather spectacular, how he staggered in and collapsed in the hall. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much blood in my life. I’m sure his shirt is quite ruined.”

Behind her, there was a rustle, and then his arm appeared, clothed in a green coat. He reached for the basket of buns. “Would you like a bun? Cook made ’em fresh just this morn.”

She watched as he picked one out for her and put it on her plate. “Thank you.”

“Yer welcome, miss.”

“It’s just that I have no one to talk about it with,” she said in a rush, staring down at the lone bun on her plate. “For my brother to brawl with Lord Vale like this...It’s very confusing.”

Gil walked over to the sideboard and brought back a dish of coddled eggs. “You made some fine friends at that house party you went to, didn’t you, miss?”

She twisted to look at him as he spooned eggs onto her plate. He didn’t meet her eyes. “How do you know that?”

He shrugged. There was a wash of red high on his cheeks. “Talk in the kitchen. Have some o’ that.” He handed her a fork.

“I expect they were referring to the Hopedale sisters.” She absently ate a bite of eggs. “They probably won’t ever want to see me again after last night.”

“Are you sure?”

Rebecca poked at the mound of yellow eggs and then took another bite. “I doubt anyone in society will be receiving us.”

“They’d be right lucky to have you at one of them fancy parties,” Gil said from behind her.

She twisted to look at him.

His brow was furrowed, but he smoothed it as she watched. “If you don’t mind me sayin’ so, miss.”

“No, I don’t mind.” She smiled at him. “It’s rather sweet of you.”

“Thank you, miss.”

She turned back to the table and took a sip of tea. It was cooler now. “It’s just that even if they would see me, I don’t know if I could talk to the Misses Hopedale about this. When we converse, it’s usually about the weather and types of hats, which I don’t know that much about but seems to be a subject they enjoy. And once in a while we discuss which is better, lemon custard or chocolate pudding? It’s rather a leap to go from puddings to my brother attempting to murder a peer.”

“Yes, miss.” He left her side again to walk to the sideboard. “There’s a lovely herring here and some gammon.”

“But maybe that’s what London ladies always talk about.” She took her fork and prodded the bun on her plate. “I wouldn’t know. I’m from the Colonies, and there’s lots that we do different there.”

“Is there, miss?” Gil hesitated, then picked up the plate with the herring on it and came over to her.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Why, in the Colonies, a man’s birth isn’t nearly so important.”

“Is that so?” He placed a portion of the herring on her plate.

“Mmm.” She ate a bite of fish. “That’s not to say that people don’t judge other people. I think that happens everywhere. But it’s more a matter of what the man has accomplished in his life and if he has money. And you know, anyone can earn money if he works hard enough. I say, this herring is very good.”

“I’ll tell Cook you said so,” Gil said from behind her. “But any man, miss?”

“What?” She was rather enjoying the herring. Maybe all she’d needed was a proper breakfast.

“Can any man become successful in America?”

She paused and glanced over her shoulder. Gil’s expression was tense, as if her answer mattered greatly to him. “Yes, I think so. After all, my brother grew up in a one-room cabin. Did you know that?”

He shook his head.

“It’s true. And now he’s very respected in Boston. The ladies all want him at their parties, and many gentlemen consult him on business. Of course”—she turned back around to fork up a bite of fish—“he started out with Uncle Thomas’s importing business, but it was a very small company when Samuel inherited it. Now it’s quite the biggest in Boston, I believe, all due to Samuel’s hard work and quick wits. And I know many other gentlemen in Boston who had humble beginnings and have become very successful.”

“I see.”

“I’m not really used to people like the aristocrats here. People who are so bound by the past and expectations. For instance, I don’t understand why Lady Emeline has decided to marry Lord Vale.”

“They’re lords and ladies, miss. Stands to reason that they’d marry one of their own.”

“Yes, but what if they fall in love with someone who
isn’t
a lord or lady?” Rebecca scowled at her herring. “I mean, love isn’t something one can control, is it? That’s the wonder of it. That a person might fall in love with someone completely unexpected. Romeo and Juliet, for example.”

“Who, miss?”

“You know. Shakespeare.”

“Afraid I haven’t heard of them people.”

She twisted about to peer up at him. “Oh, that’s a pity; it’s a very good play up until the ending. You see, Romeo falls in love with Juliet, who is the daughter of his enemy, or rather, his
family’s
enemy.”

“Doesn’t sound very sharp of him,” Gil commented practically.

“Well, that’s the point, isn’t it? He didn’t have any choice in who he fell in love with, whether or not it was
sharp
of him.”

“Huh,” said the footman. He didn’t look particularly convinced about the overpowering nature of love. “So, then what happened?”

“Oh, there’s several duels and a secret marriage and then they die.”

His eyebrows shot up. “They die?”

“I told you the end wasn’t particularly good,” Rebecca said defensively. “Anyway, it’s all very romantic.”

“Think living might be better than bein’ dead and romantic,” Gil said.

“Well, perhaps you’re right. Love doesn’t seem to have made my brother very happy.”

“Is that why he attacked Lord Vale, then?”

“I guess so. He loves Lady Emeline.” She glanced at him guiltily. “But you shouldn’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t, miss.”

She smiled at him, and he smiled back, his lovely green eyes crinkling at the corners, and she thought about how comfortable he made her feel. With so many people, she spent all her time watching every word she said and constantly worrying over what they thought of her. But with Gil she could just talk.

She turned back to the table to finish her meal, secure in the knowledge that Gil was standing behind her.

E
MELINE WAS IN
the small sitting room of her town house, drinking tea, listening to Tante Cristelle, and wishing she could be just about anywhere else.

“You are lucky,” her aunt proclaimed. “Very lucky. I do not know how that man could hide his murderous habit so well.”

That man
was Samuel. Tante Cristelle had decided by a logic understood only by herself that the terrible fight on the stairs the night before was the result of Samuel’s true violent nature breaking free from his control.

“Madmen are very cunning, I believe. And he did have very odd shoes,” Tante Cristelle said, and took a thoughtful sip of tea.

“I don’t think his shoes had anything to do with it, Tante,” Emeline muttered.

“But, yes, they must!” Her aunt stared in outrage. “A person’s shoes tell so much about them. The drunkard wears the shoes so dirty and worn. The lady of ill-repute has shoes too ornamented. And the so-murderous man, he wears the oddity—the moccasins of an Indian savage.”

Emeline tucked her feet beneath her skirts. The slippers she wore today were rather unfortunately embroidered in gold.

Hastily she sought to change the subject. “I don’t know how we will survive the gossip. Half of society was crowded into the upper hall last night, the better to see Mr. Hartley throw Jasper down the stairs.”

“Yes, and that is very odd.”

Emeline raised her eyebrows. “That everyone was staring?”

“No, no!” The older woman waved an impatient hand. “That Lord Vale allowed himself to be tossed so cavalierly.”

“I don’t think—”

“Mr. Hartley is not so big as milord Vale, and yet he was able to overpower him. It makes one wonder how he came by this strength.”